


What Will We Do With a Drunken Harry?

by Thunder_of_Dragons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Devious Pansy Parkinson, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fluff and Humor, H/D Wireless 2020, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Multi, Sharing a Bed, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunder_of_Dragons/pseuds/Thunder_of_Dragons
Summary: A victorious Quidditch match, a claimed Quidditch Cup, and a wild House party can mean only one thing. Will the aftermath lead to one excruciating hangover in the morning, or will it perhaps lead to something more?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 221
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleBozSheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBozSheep/gifts).



> This was written for the H/D Wireless 2020 prompt: _Drunken Sailor_ by The Irish Rovers (#225). Littlebozsheep, I hope you enjoy it! I had an absolute blast writing this fic.
> 
> Thank you to the amazing Wireless fest mods! I see all of the work that you put into this fest, and it's very much appreciated. Thank you for all that you do!
> 
> I also have to thank [MarshmallowMcGonagall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowMcGonagall/pseuds/MarshmallowMcGonagall) for all of her unwavering patience listening to me ramble and throw plot ideas at her, as well as her endless Britpicking help. Many thanks to [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/pseuds/icarusinflight) as well for all of their wonderful betaing help. I appreciate both of you more than you could ever know! 
> 
> Any remaining mistakes or Americanisms are my own.

“‘Mione, what should we do with him?” Ron asked as he stumbled into the Eighth Year Common Room, shouldering his longtime best friend and shooting a sideways glance at his former girlfriend. “We can’t leave him alone like this.”

Harry’s head was leaning over Ron’s forearm, his glasses missing somewhere between here and the Gryffindor Common Room. His blue- and silver-checked flannel had fallen off of him, save for one sleeve hanging feebly from his left wrist and trailing on the ground.

“Erm fine, Ron,” Harry mumbled. “Jus’ need ta get ta bed. Take a long nap. Tha’s all.”

He stood up straight, lifted one foot high, and then took a short, determined step forward.

And fell on his face.

“Here’s good,” Harry whispered as he stretched out his arms and legs, rubbing one foot back and forth along the castle stones. “Nice floor. Grab me a blankeh, would ya?” he asked, patting Hermione’s foot. “Here’s good.”

“Harry,” Hermione admonished, shaking her head at him and pushing an absent lock behind her ear. “You can’t sleep right in front of the portrait hole. For one, it’s a terrible fire hazard, and second, it’s just not a good idea. You’re bound to have an aching back in the morning, and it’s not safe — somebody will undoubtedly end up tripping over you.” She sighed and glanced at her ex. “We’ll have to get him to a proper bed, Ron; we can’t leave him alone in his room like this.”

Harry, still laying on the floor, patted at the pocket of his denims. Pulling out his wand, he waved it around and asked, “Why do I ‘ave a poin’y stick?” He threw it on the floor, and it rolled a few feet away. “Iy don’ wan’ it. I’ ‘urts; i’s too poin’y.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione picked up the wand and set it on one of the Common Room’s end tables. “Harry, we’ve been over this before,” she explained. “You’re a wizard; you can do magic. You don’t actually _need_ your wand to do magic because you’re, well, you, but you still have a wand for appearance’s sake, and I’ve told you a million times not to keep it in the pocket of your trousers. It’s going to get you killed one of these days!”

Harry rolled over, knocking his elbow into the floor, and stared at Hermione with eyes the size of saucers. “I’m a wha’?”

Hermione pursed her lips and grabbed her own wand, levitating Harry onto one of the tartan couches and trying to mind Harry’s flailing limbs.

“Wha’ was tha’?” Harry asked, patting his hand on the back of the couch. A throw blanket fell onto his face, and he mumbled from under it, “Was I fly-i-i-ing?” 

“Mate, you just won Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup.” Ron shook his head and stared exasperatedly at his best friend. “You caught the Snitch and bloody well smashed Ravenclaw into the ground.” He collapsed into one of the lounge chairs. “Forgetting you’re a wizard... forgetting you can fly… Mate, come on, you’re just taking the piss now, aren’t ya? You can’t really be _that_ drunk.”

Hauling himself onto the back of the couch and flopping an arm over the side, Harry asked bewilderedly, “I caugh’ a wha’ and did wha’ to a Ra’encla-aw?”

“Hermione, for Merlin’s sake, what’s taking you so long?” demanded a tall, ebony-haired girl who was stepping off the stairs to the Girls’ Dormitory. Pansy’s straight, sleek hair was up in a high ponytail, and her chest heaved in her short black nightgown as she stared at her girlfriend, hands on her hips. “You said you’d be back from the party in Gryffindor Tower by midnight, and it’s nearly one in the morning now. Did you forget we had plans tonight?”

“Sorry, Pans,” Hermione apologised with a grimace, lowering her eyes to the stones at her feet. “We’re just dealing with a bit of a situation. I’ll be up soon, I hope.”

Pansy looked around the room, raising a single eyebrow as she took in the Wizarding World’s Saviour hanging halfway off of a couch. She briefly raised a hand in greeting to the man sitting in the lounge chair. “Always lovely to see you, Ronald. I assume you’re having difficulty getting Potter to his room?”

“Yeah,” Ron answered, rubbing his forehead, “that about sums it up. Neither one of us wants to leave him alone, and he’s never been this drunk before. He’s usually taking care of me, not the other way around.”

“Oi,” Harry shouted, “erm not dru—”

Harry’s protests were silenced as he fell off the back of the couch.

“Ow,” he moaned softly. “Erm jus’ gonna stay here. Sof’ floor.”

“Well,” Pansy sighed, stepping towards the trio, “there’s one obvious solution to this dilemma.” Pansy sat on the arm of the couch, rolled her eyes at the black-haired man in a heap on the floor, and looked into the amber brown eyes of her girlfriend. “ _We_ aren’t watching him because _I_ had plans tonight that did _not_ involve looking after Potter—” Pansy looked to the ginger-haired man crouching on the floor beside Harry and checking him over for injuries— “and _you_ aren’t watching him because you’ve clearly taken enough care of him tonight. That only leaves one sensible person to watch him while he sleeps.”

“And who would that be?” Ron asked over the steady rhythm of Harry’s snores that was beginning to permeate the room. “Dean and Seamus are even more smashed than Harry is, and Neville’s gone off for a late night romp in the greenhouses.”

Pansy smirked as she replied, “Well, obviously, my dearest friend Draco Malfoy will watch him, of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Why in the world would Malfoy take care of Harry?” Ron asked. “The bloody wanker hates Harry. No offense, Pansy; I know you care about him, but there’s no way Malfoy is agreeing to watch Harry all night, especially if Harry is drunk off his arse.”

Pansy quirked up a corner of her lip, rolled her eyes, and looked knowingly at Hermione, raising one eyebrow high. “Would you care to explain it to him, darling, or shall I?”

Hermione swallowed, nodded to her partner, and began, “Well, Ron, I have spent quite a bit of time around Draco, now that Pansy and I are dating, and you have to admit that Harry has always been rather focused on Draco and what he’s doing. It happens to be the case that Draco has been doing the exact same things for the past seven years, and he’s even doing it now.” Hermioned smirked. “In fact, he thinks he’s being rather subtle about it whenever he asks me about Harry, attempting to hide it in between jabs about Harry seeking attention, but Draco always inquires about Harry’s well-being whenever we spend time together, even if we’re strictly supposed to be revising.”

Pansy chuckled. “If you think he’s bad now, you should have seen him during fourth year, back when Potter was in the Triwizard Tournament. I once hexed his tongue for an entire week to change into a serpent’s tongue if he so much as mentioned Potter’s name.” 

“It really wouldn’t surprise me if they fancied each other but hadn’t admitted it to themselves yet. They always have had a rather... intense relationship with one another,” Hermione suggested. “If we were to just drop Harry off and, well, _suggest_ that Draco take care of him for the night, they may be forced to recognise their attraction to one another.” Hermione pecked Pansy on the cheek. “It’s really a rather ingenious plan, sweetheart. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it myself.”

“You may be bright,” Pansy began, examining her fingernails, “but there _is_ a reason only one of us was sorted into Slytherin. Now, if I know my Draco—and I do, obviously—he’s currently finishing up his extraordinarily long face-cleansing ritual. After that, he’ll be soaking in the tub for nearly an hour. This is the perfect time to drop Potter off in Draco’s room; he won’t suspect a thing until he’s come out of the bathroom. By then, we’ll be long gone and locked safely in our own bedrooms.”

Ron stood, brushing the castle’s dust off of his knees. “I’m game for it.” He nodded. “It seems everything’s been thought out, and though I’m still concerned that the entire thing’ll end in a duel by morning, it’s better than any plan we’ve come up with so far.”

Ron levitated Harry off the floor and towards the stairs to the Boys’ Dormitory, the gentle snores from his body faintly echoing off the stones of the staircase. Pansy snuck up the stairs first, Hermione’s hand clutched tightly in her own. Slowly, but quietly, they peered around the spiral staircase as they made their way to Draco’s room.

At his door, Pansy knelt against the doorframe, closing one eye and pressing her ear into the crack. “It’s clear,” she whispered before casting Alohomora on the door. Shaking her head, she muttered, “Honestly, you’d think he’d have learned some more effective Locking Charms by now.” She squeezed Hermione’s hand and carefully inched the door open. “I do believe spending time around you has put him off his guard, dearest. I’ll have to show him the error of his ways while we’re here.”

The bathroom door was closed, the faint notes of Celestina Warbeck wafting out on the steam emanating from under the door, Draco’s voice occasionally harmonising with the melodies. Hermione crossed over to the bed, pulling away the curtains and drawing the duvet back for Ron to set Harry down.

Harry stretched his limbs experimentally against the sheets, settling with his legs sticking out at right angles, one arm hanging off of the bed and the other cuddling with the pillow. “So… sof’...” Harry let out a large yawn. “Com-fee here. Nice… an’ com-fee.”

Ron drew up the duvet around Harry and ducked back towards the door. “All right, we’ve done what we came to do. Let’s get out of here before Draco realises somebody’s in his room.”

Pansy and Hermione giggled, and Ron left from the room, extinguishing the lights with a whispered “Nox.” Pansy and Hermione were by the bathroom door, waving their wands and whispering, and Ron thought it best to stay as far away as possible. When Draco was upset and overreacting later about whatever the two girls were doing, Ron wanted to have no possible recollection of what had happened to Draco or his room.

* * *

Draco wrapped a towel around his head, hoping to keep his hair somewhat damp until he could cast the appropriate Straightening Charms on it. They never worked quite as well on dry hair as he would like, and the split ends after too many dry casts were a nightmare. He paused briefly to take in his image in the mirror as he dried off the rest of his body.

Something was off, but what was it?

Though they were heavily veined, his feet seemed perfectly normal, and he could count all ten of his toes in place with their impeccably trimmed toenails. His calves appeared perfectly fine, nicely toned but not thick like his thighs, which were conditioned from countless hours riding a broom. His cock, though thinner than many of the other Slytherin boys in his year, was still an exceedingly pleasurable length he could brag about, and both of his balls were well and nestled underneath. 

His hip bones stood out against his slender torso, which Draco was perfectly content to see. His abs were still well-defined from routine Quidditch practices, and the coarse, nearly translucent hairs marking a path down to his cock were present, Draco noted satisfactorily. His pectoral muscles were still practically nonexistent, but at least they and his nipples hadn’t changed.

Continuing his inspection, Draco met his own gaze in the mirror and finally saw it.

His eyes. 

His icy cold grey eyes. 

They were now a deep ocean blue, and he had only one guess for who could have possibly known such complex beautification charms as to change his eye colour without his notice.

Pansy.

Picking up his wand, Draco transfigured a spare flannel into a scrap of parchment, his toothbrush into a quill, and the sink water into ink. Pansy should know better by now than to mess with his appearance. Putting inked quill to parchment, he began to write.

_Pansy darling,_

_I imagine you’re having a grand time regaling the story of your antics tonight to your girlfriend._

_However, I simply cannot let such a stunt go without the appropriate repercussions. Have you told Granger yet about your distasteful penchant for those wearisome muggle groups Radiohand or Nerve Fauna or whatever rubbish they’re called? Have you told her of your escapade over the summer to a certain Grecian isle? Does she know that you’re afraid of St Mungo’s, most especially of their healers who specialise in faces and teeth?_

_If you haven’t told her of these things yet, well, I can only imagine that she’s currently with you and that she knows of them now._

_Best of luck smoothing things over and working out your differences with Granger,_

_Draco_

Draco tapped the parchment with his wand, cast a modified Howler Charm on it, folded it into a paper crane, and sent it out of the bathroom window. Pansy would be sure to let it into her bedroom before the letter began quietly shrieking outside for everyone to hear. She’d probably have quite a lot to clear up with Granger, but that was what she deserved for sneaking over to his room just to mess with his eyes and his perfect face. It was one of the only things he had left that he could rely on, and Pansy had known that.

Removing the towel from his head, Draco cast Straightening Charms on his hair and returned his toothbrush and sink water to their original states. It was getting late, and Draco needed to sleep. He and Blaise had scheduled a revision session during brunch, and Ancient Runes had always been a rather difficult subject for Draco to master. Draco would need all of his faculties to finish his latest assignment for the class. 

Draco stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his eyes to adjust to the dark bedroom. If he’d already extinguished the lights, that was only one less thing for him to do before crawling into bed.

Treading carefully over the rugs on the stone floor, Draco walked over to his bed, setting his wand on the nightstand, carefully resting atop his Potions text. Then he lifted the duvet and collapsed onto the bed.

Merlin’s beard.

Why was his pillow in the middle of the bed? And what was this warm, hard rod attached to it?

No. Not a rod. That had to be an arm.

What the Salazar was going on here?

The arm suddenly shifted, falling over Draco’s left arm and shoulder. The rest of the body it was attached to followed suit, and Draco found his face covered with a mop of dark hair and his torso pinned down by a particularly muscled chest. A short leg with surprisingly thick thighs slipped between his own legs, putting the stranger’s hip in far too close a proximity to Draco’s uncovered cock for his liking. Soft breaths landed in the crook of Draco’s neck against his collarbone, and the man’s breath smelled faintly of smoke.

Draco struggled to push the body off of him, but it was a dead weight crushing him into the mattress. He tried to move his arm to reach the wand on his nightstand, but it was a fruitless effort, even though the hawthorn wood he’d become so accustomed to holding couldn’t have been far out of reach.

Pansy was asking for it now if she was the one behind this. Though, it could be just as likely that this idiot had drunkenly stumbled into his room thinking it was his own. Who was it he was stuck under, anyway?

Draco moved his head around as much as possible, given his predicament. Dark, unkempt hair: that could be nearly anybody if they were drunk. Slim shoulders: likely a seeker or a chaser if they were a Quidditch player. Large, muscular thighs: again, high odds this was a Quidditch player, but there weren’t very many returning eighth-year students who were still playing Quidditch.

The stranger took a deep breath, and Draco could feel well-defined abs expand against his own. This was _definitely_ an active Quidditch player.

As he was narrowing down his options, Draco heard, “Sssinn’mon… smells like Draay-co…” whispered against his neck.

Morgana’s bloody tits.

Potter.

Potter was in his bed.

Potter was in his bed on top of him.

Fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

The man the Wizarding World had dubbed their “Saviour” was in his bed, pinning him down, and he couldn’t reach his wand. It certainly was not the worst thing that had ever happened in Draco’s life, but it was close.

“So sof’,” Potter whispered, running one hand along the sheets by Draco’s neck, “so pe-erfec’ like this.”

Taking a deep breath, Draco squirmed around on the bed as much as he was able. If he could just slip out the smallest bit from under Potter, then perhaps he could reach the nightstand and his wand, but Potter’s weight far exceeded his own. All his efforts produced was a half-hearted snore from the pretentious brat on top of him. Clearly, shaking Potter wouldn’t be a feasible solution to his dilemma.

“Potter,” Draco whispered. “Potter. Wake up, Potter.”

His words didn’t seem to be having any effect. Draco didn’t want to raise his voice any higher, for fear he’d be heard outside of the room and have to subsequently explain why exactly Potter was in his bed and on top of him, which Draco did not have an answer for yet.

The only possible solution was to lay here and wait for Potter to wake up. Hopefully, that would be soon, though Draco was beginning to think that luck simply was not on his side tonight.

Shimmying his hips, Draco attempted to slide his pillow out from under Potter’s thigh, but it didn’t budge. This would be a long night indeed, and his neck was bound to ache in the morning. Sighing in resignation, Draco threw his head back against the mattress. Then he froze.

His pillow may not have moved, but there was definitely something moving against his hip.

Wasn’t this an interesting development?

“Dra… Dra… Dra-ay…” Potter whimpered into Draco’s neck, one long string of saliva dripping out of his mouth on the tail end of his utterances. “Pl-- ple-- please…”

Draco felt a bulge press against his hips as Potter ground against him in his sleep, no rhythm to his movements but a rather large appendage making its presence known through Potter’s denims. Draco was helpless to do anything but lay there, processing everything that was happening to him. 

Potter.

Potter was in his bed.

On top of him.

Grinding against him.

In his sleep.

And now he was moaning.

“Dra-ay… co-o,” Potter groaned, rutting against Draco’s bare hip with increasing speed. “Har… harr-derr… pl-- ple-- plea-ase…”

Clearly, Potter was having a good time.

But did Potter know that Draco was in bed with him? Did he know that he was openly expressing his hidden desires before Draco?

Draco had realised long ago, sometime during fifth year, that he had fallen for Potter. Yet, his own fear for his family had taken precedence, and Draco knew that he’d lost any hope of pursuing Potter the moment he’d taken the Dark Mark. All Draco had ever wanted to do was protect his mother, to keep her safe from the Dark Lord’s instability, but he knew that Potter could never excuse his actions. Potter’s own parents had been willing to sacrifice everything — and they had sacrificed everything by giving their own lives — rather than work with the Dark Lord. Draco knew he had been too much of a coward to do the same; Harry could have anybody he wanted, and he would never choose to spend his time with a coward.

This moment — knowing that perhaps Potter may actually be able to look past the opposite paths they’d taken during the War, much less that Potter could actually return his affections — was a moment Draco had never dared to dream of.

If he had, he certainly hadn’t imagined Potter in his bed — most certainly hadn’t imagined him getting himself off and calling Draco’s name.

Pansy definitely owed him an explanation about how this had occurred.

But that could wait.

Because Potter was in his bed.

On top of him.

And coming.

He was coming, his body tensing as he threw his head back and released a low groan while stuttering Draco’s name. 

Before Draco could try to reach for his wand again, Potter had slumped bonelessly back onto him. Draco resigned himself to a long night of waiting for the morning light with damp denims pressed to his quickly hardening cock.

* * *

Draco watched as the morning sunlight crept in through the fern green curtains. He hadn’t managed to fall asleep but he still let out a sigh as he realised Potter hadn’t shifted since his orgasm, which had to have been at least a couple of hours prior. The snoring that had at first grated on his nerves had now blended into the background. Draco prayed that Potter would wake up soon. This needed to be sorted out before the rest of the eighth year students began roaming the Tower.

With the arrival of the sun’s heat came a pooling of heat from within Draco. He had thought he’d stopped having morning erections ages ago, but this wasn’t a wholly surprising turn of events with Potter pressed against him for the past few hours. The scent of sage and cherry that he’d been breathing in all night was a potent drug that Draco was sure he would miss when Potter had finally left him.

Looking over Potter’s mop of hair and feeling his musculature while pinned beneath him, Draco willed his rising erection back down and recited the recipe for Felix Felicis under his breath. “First add eggs from an Ashwinder to the cauldron,” he whispered. “Then, add horseradish and ignite the flames. Juice a squill bulb above the cauldron and stir vigorously. Once bubbles arise, extinguish the flames, add chopped anemone-like growth from the back of Murtlap, and ignite--”

“Mmmph…”

Potter’s limbs stretched outward and then tensed.

Opening his eyes, Potter took one look at Draco and jumped out of the bed, patting himself furiously and darting his eyes around the room. 

With the trained reflexes of an experienced dueller, Draco rolled out of bed, grasped his wand, and whispered “Incarcerous” at his former bedmate. Green silk ropes emerged from Draco’s wand point, winding around Potter’s legs and arms in an intricate pattern of knots and bands to bind him to the bedpost.

“What have you done to me, Malfoy?” Harry asked, coughing as he strained against his binds. 

Draco summoned his robe and slid into it before casting a Cleaning Charm on Potter’s trousers. 

Potter’s eyes widened, and he fought against the ropes in earnest. “Malfoy, tell me what ha--” His chest heaved as he hung his head and coughed harshly.

Turning around, Draco walked into the en suite and opened a cupboard. “We’re just going to talk, Potter. From the sounds of it, you’re just as confused as I am, but we have business to discuss from last night before I let you leave.” 

Draco returned with a glass and a vial full of light green liquid. “Now, you were rather sloshed last night, so I’ve taken the initiative to bring you a Wiggenweld Potion for the inevitable hangover you’ll have—Aguamenti—and a glass of water to halt your endless coughing. I _would_ like to get you out of here before anyone is around to notice you leaving my room and sneaking back into your own, after all.”

Crossing over to the bedpost, Draco raised the glass of water to Potter’s lips. He opened his mouth, but he cursed Draco and struggled again when the water dripped against his tongue.

“Hush, Potter,” Draco chided. “Gulping it down won’t help you any; you’ll just sick it all up, and I’d really rather not have to deal with that this morning on top of everything else.” Potter glared at him but accepted the slow trickle of water into his mouth.

Draco replaced the glass of water with the vial of Wiggenweld Potion and looked over Potter’s face. His scar looked longer, crossing over his eyebrow and onto his eyelid. Had it been that way since the Battle?

He supposed it didn’t really matter. Potter had been particularly tight-lipped about what he’d had to do to defeat the Dark Lord, and Draco knew he would never be privy to that information. Earning Potter’s trust would be a difficult, possibly impossible task.

“Do you remember anything about last night?” Draco asked. “Do you have the faintest idea how you ended up in my room — in my bed?”

“No,” Potter shook his head, “I thought you were the one responsible. All I remember from last night was the party, and maybe, I think I _may_ have fallen in the Common Room. You weren’t the one who brought me here? You didn’t do some sort of weird twisted Slytherin ritual that required me to get off in the middle of the night while in bed with you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you think us Slytherins used to do in the dungeons? I assure you, there was no magic sex ritual performed last night, just a wet dream on your part that was incredibly awkward for me to witness.”

Opening his eyes wide, Potter squirmed within the ropes once more. Draco watched as he clenched his fists tight, and then he was suddenly free of the bedpost, the ropes vanished into thin air. Curse Potter and his wandless and wordless magic.

Potter landed on his feet. Then he bolted to the bedroom door.

But Draco was faster.

Draco cast a Tripping Jinx at Potter’s back, sending him face first into the castle stones. As Potter rolled over and scrambled to right himself, Draco threw his weight atop him, grabbed his wrists, and pinned him down.

“I am not letting you leave until we’ve finished discussing this, Potter,” Draco whispered into Potter’s ear, kicking his feet up over Potter’s thighs to keep him from getting up. “You were on top of me all bloody night, driving me to madness as you called my name. I don’t know for certain who is responsible for that, but we _are_ going to talk about it, or so help me, Merlin, I _will_ finish the job that that evil bastard started seventeen years ago.”

Ceasing his struggling and falling onto his back, Potter finally looked at Draco’s face. Then, he blinked. “What happened to your eyes?”

“They have Pansy written all over them, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the reason we’re in this mess.” Draco scowled. “That’s not the reason we’re talking, though, and you won’t distract me.”

Draco let go of Potter’s hands and leaned back, wary of any tricks Potter may have up his sleeves, but Potter simply lifted his head and pillowed his arms beneath it.

“Get on with whatever you were going to say then, Malfoy, if you’re so bloody concerned about having somebody notice that I’m coming out of your room,” Potter said. “From the sounds of it, you’ve already seen my thestrals; my secrets have all been revealed to you against my will. There’s nothing left for me to hide, so just get on with whatever you have to say to me. What are you going to blackmail me into doing? What secrets do you intend to divulge to all of your friends?”

Draco’s shoulders slumped down, and he felt his carefully crafted facade fall piece by piece. If this was how Potter thought Draco felt about his late night confessions, then he would have to let down his own barriers and make a confession in turn.

“I have no plans for blackmail or any other malicious intent towards you, Potter,” Draco whispered as he bent down towards Potter’s face. “I wish to have a discussion with you following a completely different thread of thought. While I may have learned more about you in the early hours than you wanted to expose to me, your desires are safe with me for as long as you deem it necessary for me to hide them, but just for the record, I don’t worry about who sees us together in this Tower as long as you want us to be seen together.”

Potter stared up into Draco’s eyes, his right eyebrow furrowed and his upper lip pulled into his mouth as he nibbled on it.

Draco took a deep breath, stood carefully, and held his hand outstretched towards Potter. “Come to Hogsmeade with me this afternoon?” Potter’s left eyebrow raised, joining his right. “I do need to get a few more quills and a new Ancient Runes text, but afterwards, I’d like to take you for evening tea in the garden at the Manor if you can possibly stand returning there. I’d like to take a chance with you, Potter, but I’d rather not do it in the glaring eyes of the entire World.”

“Harry,” Potter said, his mouth quirking up into a grin as he reached for Draco’s hand.

“Will you go on a date with me, _Harry?_ ” Draco asked, clasping the offered hand tightly within his own.

“Yes, Draco,” Harry replied, “I absolutely would.”

**Author's Note:**

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